养不教
by LawlietLennoxLove
Summary: Yang bu jiao, fu zhi guo. If a child is not taught, it is the father's error. China lifts his eyes to the moon, and he remembers Japan. And he wonders, whether it's his fault. (Very original, I know, but hey, it's tempting). Changed to oneshot as of now.


**A/N: so this is just about plot-less…and may or may not go anywhere. But I felt about writing about China, and Japan (though he isn't in this chapter), so enjoy. Maybe. **

**My history may be more than a little off, heheh, I never did listen in lessons. Typical scenario: Teacher: And so Chang'er took a jade rabbit with her as she ascended- Me: *ooh, rabbit…***

养不教

Chapter 1 – Mid-Autumn Festival

By LawlietLennoxLove

养不教，父之过；

yang bu jiao fu zhi guo

教不严，师之惰。

jiao bu yan shi zhi duo

子不学，非所宜，

zi bu xue fei suo yi

幼不学，老何为？

you bu xue lao he wei

_Chuang qian ming yue guang_

The moon is very bright tonight, isn't it?

Quite as beautiful as it was four thousand, five thousand years ago, when he'd been deposited with a not-so-gracious thump from the vague, whirling vortex of his beginnings onto the bank of the Huang He. It hadn't quite been the graceful descent from the heavens his shen, his spirits and deities, often boasted of (before, that is, modernisation swept in and knocked all those poor, majestic figures from their radiant celestial rafts among the yin he, the stars in the silver river, and sent them sprawling into cages, books, and locked them in as 'traditonal folklore'). In fact, he'd been more than a little disorientated, and his almost drunken attempts first to stand and then stumble around to expand his territory were serenaded by the splashing currents of the Huang He, and watched upon from swallow-wing coloured skies; the first thing he saw was the jasmine-white…mirror? (Xiao shi bu shi yue…he learnt soon enough, though.)

That particular story was, of course, embellished just a little, not that Yao would ever admit to that (and why would he, if it simply didn't happen so unceremoniously, hm?).

_Yi shi di shang shuang_

Every day, every night, she would unfailingly be there to watch him take cautious steps forwards. Spring – dusky silken nights, the tender bamboo shoots he snapped to make kites, flutes he breathed life into settled in the boughs of the young plum, willow and cherry trees, wide, curious eyes flicking around at the land that offered itself to him, but always drawn towards, inevitably, the moon.

Summer, nights of humid velvet, ribbons of cool air sliding in through the shuttered windows, bringing with it a strain of the cacophony outside – the larks, swallows, nightingales and cicadas. He'd often slip outside on nights like this, lie on the ground, more often than not snuggled against a panda cub or two, and let the earth lull him to sleep.

Autumn, tumbling through abundant harvests, and amongst the sheaves of gold he learnt to listen to the earth, adding a little of this, a scattering of that, not overlooking even the humblest of herbs. He made cures, but Autumn also meant (of course!) mooncakes, and various other treats, a platter of which he clutched in one hand. The other was graced by a brush; Da Hong Pao tea and rice wine and carved silk couches, shaded mountainside pavilions and paper and ink, refilling his cup again and again, solitary little shelter bathed by lantern-light as he waxed lyrical, eyes adoring the moon. Mid-Autumn Festival was supposed to be a family affair, like all the others, but China didn't notice anything lacking. Eloquence transferred onto sheets and sheets of rice-paper with Chang'er and her jade rabbit (surely) somewhere close by was enough for him.

Winter was so, so cold. Hawthorn branches acquired claws overnight, red berries glinting of cold poison, which he discovered, then spent nights on end staring at blank eyes and pale, limp bodies, mounds and mounds of them piling up incessantly, how could his medicine-making have gone so very wrong? And then he'd burst into wakefulness, panicked and sweat-drenched from the nightmare, only to find the same thing in reality. He made bamboo firecrackers, and showered the sable-swathed sky with ichor fireworks, laughing jubilantly amid towers of rice, dumplings and steamed fish, making sure not to eat all of the latter. Nian nian you yu, after all, may there be enough to go around and more every year. Yu meaning both 'fish' and 'excess'. Red was the colour of luck, and China wrapped himself in it, shivering against the frigid air as the bangs of his firecrackers faded into the chaos of war. The jian and gunpowder (the black powder was supposed to be a medicine, damnit, when had it turned into a murder weapon?) were all too soon in coming, and no more welcome for it, and China watched in horror as emperors rose with honeyed promises, and though they all started out by bringing about prosperity and contentment, it was only a matter of time for most before they dragged the thorns of corruption through his skin. Never mind himself; his people starved, his people sickened, and discontent festered.

They fell, those extravagantly-robed emperors, and hands worn to the bone by unfair work clamped around firebrands, wheat-cutting scythes, anything they could get their hands on that could hurt, maim, kill, flames reflecting as Hell-fire in their eyes, eyes hungry for both food and blood-justice. It became a circle, a pattern, no matter how hard he tried to break it. He was only a child, after all, a small figure swaddled in padded silk, still learning, but his people never seemed to _understand_ that they had to be _fair_, even when it was proved to them time and time again, but all they learnt was to inject yet more sweet, sweet poison into their vows to be just, benevolent rulers.

The ground was frosted over, and it was so very cold.

_Ju tou wang ming yue_

The moon was indeed bright, as bright as it had been when he'd first been struck speechless with awe by it, when he'd set his calendar in accordance to its patterns, when it'd glared, unforgiving and white, at the bloodshed, gaze seeming to soften when the rivers kept flowing along with the time, and those ugly stains were hidden over if not washed away. He raised his head; four thousand years, maybe, but not nearly so old as this, nor as wise, having seen only his own history.

_Di tou si gu xiang_

His gaze dropped, as he remembered – or not, he hadn't forgotten to begin with – the dark-haired boy (traitor, backstabber, murderer) who had watched the moon with him. Despite his turning out to be those…those…_things_, he can't help but smile, his smile tinted with sadness, at the wave of nostalgia eagerly washing over him. He hasn't forgotten, he _can't _forget. For a moment, he can still feel the smooth, well-worn cushions under him, taste the tea sipped from blue-etched porcelain, hear the chatter of the normally so quiet boy, guarded brown eyes warm with tea and moonlight and maybe even…affection.

The memory comes crashing down, and the jagged fragments still sting as they cut into China again, like so many times before. Because now, he can only feel the hard ground beneath his knees, and the taste in his mouth is bitter. And as for the talking, the discussions and the arguments? Only silence, as he celebrated this 'family affair' alone.

His people had hated Japan with frightening vehemence, especially after Nanjing. They were justified, yes, but then again…_they_ hadn't raised the boy, watched him toddle through his summer houses, chase the butterflies through his gardens, close his small hands around his calligraphy brush…

And above all, they had never, _never_ watched the moon with him. If they had…China was sure that they'd not be able to hate him either, then. Di tou si gu xiang. His home had had Japan in it.

**A/N: …Yeah. Any ideas for chapters to come will be gladly welcomed.**

**References, etc. used - **

**古****朗****月****行****  
gu lang yue xing**

小 时 不 识 月  
xiao shi bu shi yue

呼 作 白 玉 盘  
hu zuo bai yu pan

又 疑 瑶 台 镜  
you yi yao tai jing

飞 在 青 云 端  
fei zai qing yun duan

- **李白**  
-** Li Bai**

**Which is basically saying how someone as a kid didn't know what the moon was, and thought it was a white jade plate, then a mirror, flying in blue-green-grey clouds. Apologies for the terrible mutilation of what is, I can assure you, a wonderful Li Bai poem. The part at the beginning is an extract of the San Zi Jing: yang bu jiao, fu zhi guo – it is the father's fault (ie. The parents') if the child is brought up undisciplined, jiao bu yan, shi zhi duo – if the discipline/teaching is not strict, it is the teacher's laziness, zi bu xue, fei suo yi – if a child does not learn, it goes against 'proper', you bu xue, lao he wei? – if a child does not study when young, what will he become when he is old/when he grows up?**

**Once again, apologies for the translation.**

**Review? *Dangles mooncakes temptingly***


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